by Graeme Lay
Dedication
For the poets: Bernard, Kevin & Peter
Contents
Dedication
Map One
Prologue
Part One: Young Fletcher
Part Two: A Voyage To Tahiti
Part Three: To The Friendly Isles
Map Two
Part Four: The Return
Part Five: Discovery
Afterword
Pitcairn Island: The Aftermath
Pitcairn Island in the 21st Century
Acknowledgements
About the Author
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Also by Graeme Lay
Copyright
With sloping masts and dipping prow,
As who pursued with yell and blow
Still treads the shadow of his foe,
And forward bends his head,
The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast,
And southward aye we fled.
from ‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner’
by Samuel Taylor Coleridge.
Map One
Prologue
20 SEPTEMBER 1793
‘I’m going now, Isabella.’
‘Where?’
‘To the cave.’
‘Oh. Come back soon.’
‘I shall.’
Baby Charles was feeding at her breast. Their elder son, Thursday October, was playing by the banyan tree outside the house. The new baby was due any day now.
Fletcher followed the path through the taypau trees, around the big plantain and the pandanus shrubs until he reached the place where several huge boulders almost blocked the trail. They were smooth and angular, as if shaped by the chisel of a giant stonemason. After making his way around the boulders, he paused to stare at the scene below him.
As on all other parts of the island, the land fell away abruptly to the sea. The slope was covered in more pandanus shrubs, with coconut and banana palms protruding through the foliage. In places the bones of the island were exposed, and where the black rocks of the land met the ocean the swells were breaking into circles of foam.
Today the ocean was unusually calm, in contrast to the turbulence Fletcher had been afflicted with for days. To rid himself of it he needed to get away from all the others, and there was only one place on the island which met this need.
Turning his back on the ocean, he began the hard climb to the escarpment. The foliage was replaced by a shelf of sloping rock, covered thinly with grit. This obliged him to climb on all fours so as not to slip back down the slope and over the precipice below. The crumbly surface always reminded him of the apple dessert topping the Christians’ family cook, Betsy Coombe, used to serve them during Sunday’s midday dinners.
Crawling upwards, he saw directly above of him the black cliff face. Striated horizontally, it was also pocked with caves. They resembled the eye sockets of blackened skulls. Other formations in the cliff resembled gargoyles, like the ones on the corners of the Cockermouth church he had attended as a boy.
The rays of the morning sun were shining onto the cliff, and the glare was intense. Panting in the heated air, he kept climbing.
One opening in the cliff was a great deal larger than the rest, a yawning maw in the rock. His cave, he thought of it. None of the natives — neither the men nor the women — ever came up here. They were frightened by the caves and the shapes of the cliff face; they considered the place taboo. As for the Bounty men, they were far too lazy to make the climb. They preferred to lie under the trees and drink their vile grog, bully the Tahitian men and fuck the Tahitian women.
But their lack of interest in this part of the island did not displease him, since he could be sure that where he was headed he was certain to be alone for as long as he wished to be.
Reaching the top of the slope and solid footing, he stood up on the rock terrace which extended along the base of the cliff. His back to the sea, he shuffled sideways for several yards until he came to the entrance to the rock hollow. Breathless, he sank down onto its gravelly floor and brushed the grit from his hands. The place stank of damp and goat shit. His shirt and hands were saturated with sweat. His hands always sweated, and not just at times like this. Whenever his emotions were aroused they began to leak, something which had embarrassed him since childhood. He took the kerchief from around his neck and mopped his hands and face.
He turned to face the ocean, spread out far below him, apparently infinite. Up here he was even above the ‘hawks’, the frigate birds, their wings outstretched like dark angels, riding the air waves. Terns fluttered above the coconut palms, gossiping with one another.
In spite of the heat and the strenuousness of the climb, this view was one he never tired of. The sight of the ocean and the birds, and the seclusion of the cave, brought him back here time after time. The place was balm to his wounds.
He sat staring at the ocean for a quarter of an hour, then another quarter. Today there was no sea mist, so the horizon’s parabola was visible. Between it and the island there was nothing but ocean. And today it was still. No waves, no white-tops. And the colour! A blue so pure and dark it shimmered. Only where the sea met the island’s rocky coastline did it break into foam.
Such vastness, such beauty.
And such distance. From his brothers, from his mother, from his other relatives and friends. From Cumbria, the region where he had grown up, and the Isle of Man, his adopted home. The knowledge that he was an outlaw, and so would never see his family or his homeland again, brought back the black fog of melancholy which beset him often now and seemed to be sinking deeper into his soul. Although this place was beyond the reach of the navy’s vengeance the island had become like a prison to him. One whose walls were made not of stone but of water.
He shifted his gaze to the right, towards the bay where they had all struggled ashore nearly three years ago, and in whose water the bones of the Bounty now lay. They had burnt not their bridges but their ship, and with its destruction had gone their last chance of ever leaving the island. He had often wondered, had the Bounty not been fired, would he and those who wished to leave with him have done so?
This question continued to torment him, although leaving was now an impossibility. He and the others were in everlasting exile, from England, from Scotland, from Tahiti, from Tupuai. All of them — men, women and children — were fated to live out what remained of their lives on this island. That thought deepened the hue of the black fog. How had it come to this? In five years his life had gone from one of respectability and achievement to one of banishment and desolation.
And for that hideous descent he blamed just one man. William Bligh. The knowledge that he had sent the man to his certain death in a small boat was of little consolation to him. Bligh had wrecked his life.
On more than one occasion Fletcher had considered throwing himself from the cliff and ending it all. Lifting his head, he stared down the precipitous slope. How easy it would be to pitch himself forward and into oblivion. Only the thought of Isabella, their infant sons and their yet-to-be-born child prevented him. They were now his sole reason for living.
For almost two hours he sat at the cave entrance, wracked with regrets and loathing. Until his mind was brought back sharply to the present by an unmistakable sound coming up from below.
The crack of a musket.
He sprang to his feet and began to scramble back down the slope.
Part One
YOUNG FLETCHER
COCKERMOUTH, 15 JUNE 1778
The dark-haired lad trudged upwards, along the road to Eaglesfield. High summer, and dust from the road covered his boots. In his satchel were his schoolbooks: a times table, a nature study, his notebook and a history text, The Story of Cumbria. The
history book had been loaned to him by Mr Rawlings, his master at Cockermouth Free Grammar School, who had pointed out to Fletcher that his family were mentioned more than once in the book.
‘You are a member of one of Cumbria’s oldest families, Christian,’ the wigged old schoolmaster had said, his voice somewhat awed. ‘And some of your father’s family — over on the Isle of Man — were deemsters. Eminent judges.’
Fletcher was pleased to learn of this connection. His father had died ten years ago, when he was not yet four, so he barely remembered him. His mother said little about her late husband’s family. Fletcher knew only that they had come from the Isle of Man, and that they were wealthy from their mining and farming interests. His mother, Ann Christian, always had a great deal to say about her own family, the Dixons, so much so that Fletcher grew tired of the stories about the uncles and grandparents whom he had never known. Now, at the age of fourteen, he was impatient to complete his schooling and take up a place at Cambridge, where his brother Edward was studying law. His other brother, Charles, was studying medicine in Edinburgh.
Fletcher walked on, the sweat inside his shirt causing an unpleasant itch. It was late afternoon, but still very hot. The sky was pale and streaked with feathers of cirrus. ‘Such cloud formations presage fine weather,’ Mr Rawlings had announced to the class while on a nature ramble earlier in the day. And after the schoolmaster’s prediction had proved correct Fletcher had made a mental note to himself: cirrus means fine weather.
He left the road and walked down onto the embankment which led to the Cocker River. Its long grass, shady trees and the river itself looked invitingly cool. The elm trees were in full leaf and he went to the nearest one, threw down his satchel and lay back on the grass beneath the tree, staring up through the foliage at the blue beyond, savouring the softness and scent of the grass.
At that moment the quietness was shattered by yells coming from further along the embankment. Fletcher sat up. The yells were followed by another sound, of high-pitched crying, coming from the same direction. The crying came again, now louder. Getting to his feet, picking up his satchel, Fletcher strode through the grass towards the source of the noise.
A little further down the embankment, under another elm, were two boys. One was about Fletcher’s size and age, the other much younger and smaller, only eight or nine perhaps. On the ground was an open school bag, and several sheets of paper were scattered about. The older boy’s shirt was hanging loose over his breeches and his long fair hair was dishevelled. The smaller boy was wearing a brown tweed suit, the jacket front unbuttoned. The front of his jacket was being held by the older boy, who was shaking him. He shouted, ‘Girly! Milksop!’, then slung the smaller boy to one side, so that he lost his footing and slid to the ground. The boy cowered there, whimpering, his hands over his face. The other boy began to kick him, in the stomach, in his side, in the back of the head.
Fletcher ran to the pair. He grabbed the larger boy by his shirt collar and jerked him backwards. The boy yelped in surprise, then turned. Fletcher recognised him from school. Chudleigh, a known dimwit and bully. Fletcher flung him to the ground, then hauled him to his feet. Under his grip Chudleigh’s shirt ripped and his face scrunched with fear.
The two boys were almost the same height. Bringing his face close to the other’s, Fletcher snarled. ‘You want to fight, Chudleigh? Then fight me.’ Swinging his right hand, he brought his fist into hard contact with the side of Chudleigh’s head.
Chudleigh cried out, ‘No! No!’
Ignoring this, Fletcher put his left arm around Chudleigh’s neck and held it there tightly. He hurled the boy to the ground, then stood back, swung his left foot and booted his backside as hard as he could. Chudleigh yelped again, and tried to scramble away on all fours.
The smaller boy was still lying on the ground, watching what was happening, his eyes popping with fright. Seeing that his tormentor was now disarmed he hesitantly got to his feet and began to do up his jacket buttons.
Chudleigh, crying now, began to crawl away in the direction of the river. Fletcher booted him in the backside again, at the same time hissing, ‘Yes, crawl away, you rat. And if I see you picking on anyone smaller than yourself again, I’ll give you a proper thrashing!’ Finding the Chudleigh backside too inviting a target to resist, he booted it once more. Chudleigh got to his feet and began to run, this time away from the river and towards the street that led to Cockermouth’s marketplace.
‘Here, wipe your face.’ Fletcher held his handkerchief out to the boy, who took it and began to wipe the tears from his cheeks. His hands were shaking and his mouth hung open. Fletcher gathered up the boy’s papers and began to put them back into his satchel. Noticing that the papers were covered in very neat handwriting, he asked, ‘Is this your homework?’
The boy shook his head. ‘No. That’s my writing. I like to write.’
‘Oh? What do you write?’
‘About things I like. Birds, trees, the sky.’ Bowing his head, he said, ‘That’s why he was hitting me. He said that only sissies write.’ He sniffed. ‘And so I must be a girl, he said.’
Fletcher snorted. ‘Chudleigh’s a numbskull.’ He handed the boy his satchel. ‘Who’s your teacher?’
‘Mistress Debenhouse. She lets me write. She’s kind.’
‘So I’ve heard.’ Straightening his collar, Fletcher picked up his own satchel. ‘Well, I’d best be on my way home. You can walk with me if you like.’
The boy nodded eagerly. ‘Thank you. You live at Moorland Close, don’t you?’
Surprised, Fletcher replied, ‘Yes. How did you know that?’
‘Everyone knows your family. The Christians, and your place, Moorland Close. I’ve watched you in the playground too. Winning running races and doing handstands.’ He gave an admiring little laugh. ‘You’re very good at handstands.’
Fletcher smiled. The boy was certainly observant. He had bright, intelligent eyes and a long, very straight nose. Fletcher said to him, ‘If Chudleigh, or anyone else for that matter, bullies you, let me know.’ He gave the boy a straight look. ‘Bullies have to be stood up to. Remember that.’
The boy nodded. ‘But when you’re small, it’s hard to.’
‘Well, if it happens again, let me know, and I’ll deal to him.’
They began to walk up the embankment towards the town, both with their satchels over their shoulders. There was no wind whatsoever, and the late afternoon was heavy with heat. As they walked Fletcher said, ‘What’s your name?’
‘I’m William. William Wordsworth.’
29 MAY 1779
His mother was in the drawing room, sitting on the divan under the bay window. She had on a scarlet gown and her best lace bonnet, the one she had bought in Bruges a few years ago while on a tour of the Low Countries. Behind her the red velvet drapes were drawn well back, so there was a clear view of the lawn, the sun dial in its centre and the old plane tree at the foot of the slope. Under the tree was the garden seat where Fletcher liked to sit and read. Beyond the property, visible through the summer haze, were the fells and forests of the Lake District.
His mother smiled at him tightly, then gestured towards the wing-back chair beside the fireplace.
‘Fletcher darling, do sit down.’
Above the fireplace was the portrait in oils of his father. Fletcher’s eyes dwelt on the painting for a few moments. His father had been portrayed seated in this very room. Wearing a large wig and bearing a stern expression, Charles Christian’s face was jowly, his nose prominent, the eyebrows bushy. He wore a maroon brocade waistcoat, navy blue topcoat and white breeches. An authority figure, certainly, but along with the sternness the portraitist had also captured a definite kindliness about his eyes. An attorney-at-law, Charles Christian had died aged thirty-nine, of the flux. For the umpteenth time, Fletcher wished he had known him.
Taking a seat in the chair, Fletcher returned his attention to his mother. Her expression was solemn. She was usually so animated. Her gravit
y made him feel a little uneasy. Had somebody in the family died? Smoothing her gown, she said, ‘We need to talk about your future, Fletcher.’
He brightened. He wanted to talk about it too. In a few weeks he would leave the school he had attended for the last eight years, and would be well ready to face a new future. Away from Cockermouth.
‘I’m so looking forward to going to Cambridge, Mother. This time next year—’
She heaved a sigh and her shoulders slumped. Turning away, she said quietly, ‘You will not be enrolling at Cambridge, Fletcher.’
He started. ‘But it was agreed—’
She held up her right hand. ‘I know, I know. But circumstances have changed.’
He felt giddy. Changed? Whatever did she mean? For years it had been planned for him to attend St John’s at Cambridge, like Edward, and read philosophy and law. That knowledge had driven him to succeed in his school studies, which in turn had earned him top marks in most of his subjects, especially Latin, History and English. He was more than ready for higher study. And now . . .
‘I don’t understand, Mother.’ He stared at her and she seemed to shrink a little under his gaze. ‘What are these circumstances?’
Placing her hands together in her lap, looking down at them, she said in the same subdued voice, ‘I have become indebted.’
Her voice seemed to be coming from some foreign place. She had borrowed heavily against the Moorland Close estate, to finance Edward and Charles’s educations in law and medicine. She had been struggling, secretly, for years to maintain the family’s social position and finances, she said, but could no longer continue to do so. The family notary, Sir Stephen Galbraith, had advised her yesterday that her creditors were about to foreclose. Apart from Moorland Close she had virtually no assets, her debts were colossal, and as a consequence Ann Christian was insolvent.
Fletcher’s hands had gone clammy. He gripped the arms of the chair. His throat tight, he asked, ‘How much is the debt?’